


I'm Your National Anthem

by PeopleCoveredInFish



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Journalism, Alternate Universe - Politics, Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-06 21:50:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4237848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeopleCoveredInFish/pseuds/PeopleCoveredInFish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust is anathema in this business. He hears the rumours: a young politician from the Kansai region, charisma like lightning, have you heard him speak? Harasawa smiles inwardly as he finishes off an expose on illegal gambling in Shinjuku; he has never met a politician free from the sodden scent of scandal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hilaryfaye](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilaryfaye/gifts), [skytramp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skytramp/gifts).



Trust is anathema in this business. He hears the rumours: a young politician from the Kansai region, charisma like lightning, have you heard him speak? Harasawa smiles inwardly as he finishes off an expose on illegal gambling in Shinjuku; he has never met a politician free from the sodden scent of scandal.

When Imayoshi’s office returns his call, Harasawa is not surprised to hear that he has agreed to a private interview. The young ones are always eager to prove their innocence, and what better way than by submitting to questioning from a veteran investigative journalist? He begins digging, mindful not to leave his own trail in case of watchful eyes. What he finds in those early days is of little consequence, a drunken party or two, horse racing, an ill-advised fling from his university years, the typical train of events that always follows those who seek the spotlight.

He’s just starting to look into some promising paperwork regarding the man’s taxes when the afternoon allotted for the interview arrives. The Shinagawa office building slopes out of the pavement, glass shimmering in the summer heat, and the elevator zips up the side. Harasawa watches Tokyo fall away from his feet, centering his body away from the walls. He enters the campaign center through the side door, to give him the momentary advantage of taking stock, but there’s really nothing of note. The place is nearly empty, the desks bereft of any kind of ornamentation that would signify long-term use and adaptability. Perhaps the only nod to office cultural norms is the very attractive secretary at the front of the room, who’s currently smiling at Harasawa over the mouthpiece of her phone, signalling that she’ll be with him in a moment. When she ends the call, Harasawa is taking a last look at the odd blankness of the room and wondering exactly how she fits into it. “You must be Harasawa-san,” she greets him.

He nods. She hums, and, still holding the receiver, dials an extension. “He’s here, Shou-chan.”

Harasawa takes note of that. Few men engage with their secretaries in a manner so casual without it signifying something more insidious. Then the door to the right of her desk opens, and he turns.

Imayoshi Shouichi is almost exactly half his age, which he knew to expect, but seeing it manifest, combined with the sense of power he exudes, is disconcerting. The suit he’s wearing probably cost a year’s worth of Harasawa’s exclusives; it skims the contours of his frame and hints at the muscle underneath. His smile is moneyed, and he looks at Harasawa like he’s fine dining.

“Shall we get started, Harasawa-san?”

He escorts Harasawa into his office, holding the door open for him. “Pretty quiet out there,” says Harasawa, taking in the room, its comforts and general splendor standing in contrast to the waiting area they’ve just vacated.

“I gave the rest of the staff the day off,” says Imayoshi.

Harasawa smiles; thinks about the empty desks. Imayoshi walks towards a liquor cart in a corner of the room and opens a bottle of expensive whiskey. “I was saving this,” he says, “but I believe this is an apt occasion. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for quite some time.”

The sun filters through the half-open blinds, shadow cutting across Imayoshi’s face. “Now,” he says, pouring, “I believe that you got your start reporting on, what was it, the 1986 elections?”

That had been a few years before Imayoshi was born. Harasawa holds back a sudden, irrepressible urge to laugh. “You’ve done your research.”

Imayoshi hands him a glass, and sits in the chair directly across. “Coming from you, sir, that’s quite the compliment.”

“It’s always a relief when people take this business seriously,” says Harasawa, between deep drinks of the whiskey, “it makes my job a lot easier.”

“I imagine it does.”

Imayoshi’s smile doesn’t only reach his eyes, it practically envelops them. It makes Harasawa want to cut him open; lay out his secrets in the afternoon light.

“Let’s start off gently,” says Harasawa, “what’s your position on vice?”

Sipping his whiskey, Imayoshi raises a single eyebrow. “You call that gentle? Someone likes to play dirty.”

Harasawa swallows, a bit uncomfortably. “Well, Imayoshi-san?”

Imayoshi chuckles. It makes him look even younger. “I’ll bite. I believe that it’s time for Japan to legalize gambling. It would open up broader support for our infrastructure, as the taxes levied would be well within appropriate measures. There, will that put you off for now?”

“You seem reluctant to talk about the subject.”

“Not at all. I merely think you’ll have better luck with your other questions.”

Feeling vaguely unsettled, Harasawa changes the subject after a pause. “I see that you haven’t given your secretary the afternoon off, as well,” he says, “but of course you must require some support staff.”

There’s something metallic about his smile, now. “I see what you’re doing, Harasawa-san, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“Am I?”

Harasawa is oddly breathless. He shifts in his chair. “Momoi-san is an old friend, nothing more,” says Imayoshi, eyes open and fixed on him, “but I understand. You have to explore every avenue of possibility, no?”

Knocking back the rest of the whiskey, Harasawa says, “That’s amenable of you to recognize.”

“Ah,” replies Imayoshi, “I’m afraid I’m being a bit selfish, really. Only, I can’t stop thinking about how your lips would look wrapped around my cock.”

Harasawa’s world dims for a moment. He’s not sure if he puts voice to the confusion, the unprecedentedly sordid scenario that seems determined to unfold around him. Imayoshi is observing his reaction with a pleased grin. “For a reporter, you’re rather too easy to read, Harasawa. Won’t you come over here?”

It’s been years since he was with another man. He wonders, almost irritably, how Imayoshi had sensed the lust in him. “I can’t,” says Harasawa, the words wrenched out of him because he knows he has to say something, anything that will put a stop to this.

“You can,” Imayoshi says, “and you will.”

Thinking suddenly of Imayoshi’s secretary, Harasawa turns to look in the direction of the office door. “The walls are quite soundproof, I assure you,” says Imayoshi, pleasantly.

Not wanting to think about what else Imayoshi has done here to have reached that conclusion, Harasawa finally walks, albeit unsteadily, to Imayoshi’s chair and, sighing, drops to his knees. From this angle, he’s looking up at Imayoshi. It’s almost too intimate. He’s glad to see that Imayoshi’s breathing none too lightly.

He unzips Imayoshi’s suit trousers, feels the hardness under the expensive fabric weave, and he’s suddenly dizzy with how much he wants this. Allowing just the tip into his mouth at first, he circles his tongue around it. Imayoshi inhales sharply, and drops his head back.

Harasawa is just beginning to unbutton his own pants when Imayoshi says, “Don’t. I want you to fuck me.”

The sea-swell of Harasawa’s own blood pulses beneath his skin, and his moan is trapped in his throat. He tries to relax, to take in more of Imayoshi, but before he can really get accustomed to a rhythm, Imayoshi is pulling him up for a kiss. It’s soft; he’s almost surprised, but it deepens into heat and carelessness. Harasawa has him by the hair, he’s gripping his head and sucking on his tongue. He can feel Imayoshi smiling against his lips, and he hates him for it.

Imayoshi shucks his trousers and grabs Harasawa by the lapels, dragging them both on top of the desk, heedless of paperwork. There’s a bottle of lotion next to the paperweight that Harasawa is careful to avoid--that would hurt digging into his side--and he coats his fingers liberally with it before working two of them right into Imayoshi, who hisses with the stretch.

Harasawa shushes him then, soft and gentle, his other hand rubbing circles on Imayoshi’s back. For his part, Imayoshi is trying to rock back onto Harasawa’s fingers, but not quite finding the correct leverage. “Come on,” he urges Harasawa.

“I thought I was the one who liked to play dirty,” is the response.

When he finally pushes in, they both sigh with the tightness of it, and Harasawa sets a pace that he knows won’t be fast enough for Imayoshi, who’s now clawing at his back.  He doesn’t last long, and, to his amusement, neither does Imayoshi. They collapse in a heap on top of the desk.

Imayoshi grins. “Same time next week?”


	2. Chapter 2

He finds himself pulled into Imayoshi’s orbit like a collapsing star, moving soundlessly through time and space towards the vacant center of him.

Harasawa is on his back, dark wood of the desk pressing up against his spine, Imayoshi’s tongue lapping into him, breath heaving from his chest in hazy gasps. This place, this office has imprinted on him, cell-deep, and he’s not sure why he keeps coming back when the peak of his journalistic muckraking campaign is just waiting to be dropped into the laps of hundreds of thousands of readers, at his editor’s command.

Imayoshi is against him, sparking along his nerves, pushing him towards the precipice of stimulation. And he surges over, moan sliding off his tongue. Cracked at the core, like a tree hewn through with lightning.

There never were any other staffers. It’s why the office had seemed so oddly empty to him that first day, even with the desks and the chairs and the countless phone lines, it had always been just Imayoshi and Momoi.

Easier to hide when there’s only two.

That observation had propelled him into ever deeper levels of investigation; through the bank statements and the taxes to the offshore account he’s pretty sure no one else knows about. He’s followed all the back paths, traced every transaction through to its endpoint. All he can do now is wait for the printers to deliver Imayoshi’s doom.

The leading competitor’s headline that next morning, peering up at him from his doormat, is “Desk Job: Rising Politician and Veteran Reporter’s Homosexual Affair, Exposed!” On autopilot, he bends down to retrieve the paper, giving him a closer look at the above-the-cut photo--a snapshot of him kneeling, looking up at Imayoshi, the distinct curl of his hair cutting through in profile.

His mind prickles in white blankness, edged out by the rising column of rage spiralling up his throat. The suit he was wearing in that photo. It could only have been taken the very first day they had met.

Which means whoever did this has been planning it from the beginning. And that really left two people, didn’t it.

Harasawa is relatively certain that it’s not Momoi.

He is barely conscious of driving to Shinagawa, of boarding the elevator and watching Tokyo fall away at his feet. He marches through the front door of the office, Momoi immediately up from her desk and calling his name, trying to stop him before he reaches Imayoshi’s inner sanctum.

When he throws open the door, Imayoshi is relaxing with a decanter of whiskey, the paper spread out over his lap like conquered territory. His eyes when they meet Harasawa’s are dark as obsidian, and just as beetle-smooth.

“Oh, excellent,” he says, almost absently, and for a moment Harasawa wonders just what this is costing him.

“How long have you been planning this?”

Imayoshi actually smiles. “Don’t go taking all the fun out of it now, Katchan.”

The unearned nickname wraps around something inside of him and squeezes. “You used me.”

Momoi hovers over the threshold until Imayoshi’s nod releases her from limbo, and she closes the door behind her, worried eyes meeting Harasawa’s one final time.

“And you weren’t using me?”

Imayoshi’s counterpoint is soft by contrast, weather-light, easy to mistake for gentle.

“I was doing my job.”

Harasawa snatches the whiskey, turns away. Drinks.

The smirk widens, and Imayoshi retrieves his whiskey before taking a sip. “Admirably so, I’m sure.”

Harasawa’s sense of self, already fracturing these past months, takes another hit as the anger, still rising in his throat, reaches for its practiced release.

He kisses Imayoshi.

Backing him into the wall, Harasawa reaches for his hands, careless of the whiskey that crashes to the floor. Hands upon hands, they are merely two men. Imayoshi responds forcefully, reversing their positions and pinning Harasawa’s arms above him. They breathe into the moment.

“I hope it was worth it,” says Harasawa, half into Imayoshi’s mouth.

Imayoshi responds by biting Harasawa’s lower lip; sliding his hand into his trousers. Harasawa sighs with it, nerves flaring in their rage-fed lust, reaches to tear Imayoshi’s shirt from its buttons.

They slide down the wall, coming together on the floor, enveloped in a needy ferocity. Heedless of the glass shards biting into them, Harasawa moves against Imayoshi to the rhythm of his own blood. Release, when it comes, is no comfort.

“Shame to have ruined such a good suit,” says Imayoshi.

Harasawa looks down at his own cheap attire, and snorts.

“You were going to get too close,” Imayoshi tells him.

“So you set me up, right from the beginning.”

Imayoshi shakes a sprinkling of glass out from his suit cuffs. “A sex scandal, I can come back from.”

“And no one will pay the slightest attention to the real story.”

“I’m glad you understand. Of course, you’ll never work again.”

Harasawa makes to stand, brushes himself off, wonders if Imayoshi will die as easily as he lives. “It’s been a pleasure.”

The arsenic had added a certain indelible flavor to the whiskey, that much was certain.


End file.
